


Every Happiness is a Hostage to Fortune

by infensi_floralibus



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, Tarot, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infensi_floralibus/pseuds/infensi_floralibus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The cards are not certain of the future,” the queen cautions, as though I believe in it, “They are more like signs...warnings. We must not take them too literally; it is up to each of us to interpret the true meaning of our reading.” .... “This knight represents steady, reliable and practical people...he will be ambitious too, but knows how to be patient and bide his time, does this ring any bells?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Happiness is a Hostage to Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> After reading The Lady of the Rivers whilst I was in France, I became really intrigued at the use of tarot cards as a plot device.... this is what happens when you have no internet access for almost two weeks.

I cannot clearly remember the morning Richard left us; departed from Middleham, and me. In my mind it is cold and my fingers ache from the chill, but so clouded is this memory that in truth it may have been high summer. If I close my eyes and strain hard enough I can recreate it, but flawed like a piece of embroidery copied from memory...  


The entire household has turned out to gather in the courtyard and wish the young duke good speed and good health on his journey; many are smiling, for in their eyes Richard’s summons to court is the mark of the end of his childhood and the beginning of his new life at the right hand of the king. They do not think it a grief that he should leave us, but a due honour that they are pleased to see him receive. As selfish as it makes me, and I know I shall have to confess it to the priest, I cannot share in their joy. Although my feelings for Richard are still those of a child I am deeply grieved to see him leave; he is far from being my constant companion, the daily activities of the young men of the household and those of my sister and I rarely overlap, yet I consider him my dearest friend. Unlike Izzy, or even Francis Lovell who I also care for dearly, he never teases me or mocks my shyness. Richard has always treated me as though I am a lady already grown, deserving of the same respect as an adult, and I cannot help but blush when he compliments my singing one evening in the solar. I have long known that my father hoped for a match between us and at night I thank God in my prayers that he has chosen someone so good for me. But now as I watch him prepare to ride away, I feel as though this is the last I shall ever see of him and my stomach physically aches with sadness; it feels as it did the previous Christmas when I made myself sick by eating too much marchpane and all my nurse could do was cluck her tongue and rub my tender abdomen.  


I had sworn that I would not disgrace myself by crying and I can feel Izzy poised to pinch me if I so much as sniffle. Richard is kneeling before my mother for her blessing, father already being with the king at court, and I watch her hand, heavy with rings, come to rest on his dark curls before he rises and begins to work his way down the line we have formed on the castle keep’s steps, murmuring his goodbyes and receiving the good wishes of the boys he has grown up with. As he stops at Izzy, dropping kisses on both her cheeks like they do in France, I think that he does not look sad to be going, rather he appears excited. But that is to be expected I suppose, young men such as he do not wish to be cooped up with their cousins in the north of England, they’d much rather be serving the handsome young king in his dazzling new court.  


“Anne,” he murmurs in his low almost husky voice as he kisses my hand, looking for all the world like a handsome young knight preparing to ride out on some great quest.  


“Richard,” I reply, unsure what I should say, what I can say as my throat grows thick and my eyes hot. He leans in to kiss me on the cheeks as he did Isabel and for a brief moment I close my eyes and imagine that he is my lord and I his lady, and that he is defying convention and daring to kiss me goodbye in front of all these people. As he pulls away I instinctively grasp his hand, my breath catching as I realise that this is truly the moment of parting. “We will see each other again?” I ask, my voice a rushed whisper. I feel Izzy stiffen beside me, ready to step in and prevent a scene, but Richard smiles that quiet, oh-so- sure grin of his and draws closer again, taking my other hand in his as well.  


“Of course we shall see each other again; perhaps you will be allowed to come to court this Christmas? We shall both have so many stories to tell each other.” He squeezes my hands and there is a sense of calm assurance in the warmth of his palms. His bright blue eyes meet mine and they are so transparent it is hard to imagine he could ever hide a lie; his face is an open book that few could not read. “I promise, Anne.”  


“You swear it?” I press urgently.  


“On the cross”, I gasp a little at his blasphemy but he is quick to smile and press warm lips to our joined hands, “God be with you,” he adds.  


“And also with you,” I reply.  


Then he is gone, and it seems a very long time until we see each other again.  


***  


Times are not as happy as they should be, father and the king are not as close as they once were and I begin to think I shall spend my whole life in the grey north of England, far from London, far from Richard.  


But then, in spite of my fears, a Christmas miracle occurs and I am summoned along with Isabel to court for the yuletide season. I am jubilant all the way there and not even the cold looks of the beautiful queen can diminish my festive cheer. I know she does not like Izzy or me because of father; when we sit in her presence chamber, before the fire with the other highborn ladies of the kingdom, she is careful to not speak of anything of importance, lest perhaps we report back to our parents.  


One evening, when snow has kept us inside all day, we are all milling around the Queen’s finely decorated presence chamber, antsy with lack of activity. Our icily beautiful mistress is sitting by the fire and laughing with one of her many sisters; I think that perhaps the warmth of the blaze is melting her frosty heart and I glimpse for a second the woman I had once watched in awe at her coronation. They are playing with finely decorated cards, shuffling them rapidly then selecting three at what appears to be random, turning them over one by one and exclaiming at what they see. I must have stared for too long for the Queen looks up suddenly and catches me watching; although the smile does not drop from her finely sculpted lips, something goes out behind her eyes.  


“Lady Anne, come join us,” she calls, indicating that I am to draw up a stool between them. I look quickly to Isabel who continues to stare intently at her embroidery as though I have not just been invited into the lion’s den, before setting aside my own needlework and joining the pair of unearthly beauties by the fire. “Have you ever seen a pack of cards such as these before?” the Woodville woman asks coolly as I drew my footstool close to the little oak table in front of her.  


“No, your majesty.” I reply, for I can now see that this is not just a prettily painted set of playing cards; rather they are a series of brightly illuminated pictures, each lovingly crafted by a master craftsmen who must have spent much time and care on each of them. There are a multitude of images but a glimpse of just one tells me enough; I swallow at the sight of the pentacle for I am sure that this must be forbidden magic.  


“You need not look so frightened, girl.” The queen laughs, “There’s no sorcery here; some fools believe that we can use these to divine the future, but in truth they show us only the futures that we create for ourselves. It is our interpretations that give them power.” I nod obligingly but inside I know that she would not dare to flaunt her ancestral magic if she were not the adored wife of our York king. “I shall do a reading for you.” She says with a smile and begins to shuffle the pack with practised dexterity.  


“Oh, your majesty need not-” I begin but she silences me with a small shake of her head.  


“It will only take a moment, now think of a question you would like answering. Is there something you want? Or perhaps you are too young for that, perhaps you want to ask what you truly desire?” I am mesmerised by the swift motion of her hands, the smooth dicing and merging of the cards, as colourful and bright as a kingfisher, that when she asks me if I am ready I have not yet even thought what it is I wish to know. I think silently that this is nonsense anyway and so nod obediently. She then fans the cards on the table in front of me and prompts me to pick three, any three.  


I don’t think just but hastily choose, eager for this all to be over, and watch as she carefully collects and sets aside the surplus cards. She then spreads the three cards I have selected out in front of her and is about to turn the first when she pauses and looks me suddenly dead in the eye, all jest gone.  


“The cards are not certain of the future,” the queen cautions, as though I believe in it, “They are more like signs...warnings. We must not take them too literally; it is up to each of us to interpret the true meaning of our reading.” I nod to show I have heard and surprise myself with the excitement I feel as she reveals the first card. “Ah, The Lovers. Not an unusual card for a girl of your age to draw, I’m sure you dream at night of your future husband,” she teases as though we are actually close friends rather than adversaries by association. “Perhaps you are eager for your betrothal, there may be someone you already have in mind... however this card can mean more than just romance, it may represent a budding alliance or coming together of ideas,” a tiny crease appears between her brows as she says this and I think that a new Neville alliance is hardly something that would bring her joy. “Let us see the next,” she says, moving swiftly on, turning the brightly coloured card with her perfectly lacquered nails, “The Knight of Pentacles, I should warn your father – there already appears to be a knight you admire,” the queen and her sister laugh as I flush; I shake my head to deny it, whilst internally I wonder whether the cards really are divining my hopes, if not my future. “This knight represents steady, reliable and practical people...he will be ambitious too, but knows how to be patient and bide his time, does this ring any bells?” I’m frozen even as the proximity of the fire turns my cheeks red, I feel I should deny it but I can already picture a different face on the card, a bluer pair of eyes and a mop of dark curls. Queen Elizabeth nods as if my silence is answer enough and continues to examine the two cards, pairing them side by side. “Together these cards show you manifesting a relationship or goal you desire, only you will know what it is – manifestation means the coming to fruition of your desires and wishes,” she explains as I blink in confusion, “These are good cards, hopeful cards.” I defy my own scepticism by smiling; The Lovers, a knight... I know exactly who and what I am hoping for, and with any luck I shall see him that night at dinner.  


My joy at her prophecy occupies my mind so completely that I forget there is a third and final card until she turns it over. It takes a moment for my mind to comprehend the image before me, and then I am standing, the stool knocked over as I reel from the table.  


Death.  


Any pleasure I had taken in her game is doused by this sudden turn and I sense that I have the room’s attention, so severe is my reaction. Her ladies are looking up from their needlework to watch as the youngest Neville girl allows herself to be made a fool of in front of the queen of England. The queen herself is silent for a long moment, staring intently at the card before looking up with a smile on her lips, “Did I not tell you we should not take the cards too literally?” she admonishes, gesturing to a maid to right my stool. “Sit down and we shall work out what message the card has for you.”  


“It seems a rather clear meaning to me,” I venture tentatively, slowly sinking back on to the stool.  


“Then you are wrong, you must learn to see beyond what is immediately in front of you,” I am almost certain as she says this that she is not simply referring to the cards spread on the shining table top. “Death represents the end, but not always the end of mortal life. It often means the death of one way of life so that another may start. Perhaps something must end before your new life with your gallant knight can begin?” I nod slowly to show my understanding, but I cannot tear my eyes away from the hooded figure or his great scythe. “Death is even a good card to draw, especially when placed next to such as those you picked. The card you should most fear is The Tower.”  


“The Tower?” I echo, for to me a tower represents strength and safety, a refuge from marauders below.  


“The lightning struck tower, it means complete and utter destruction.” Her long fingers pick it from the deck with a deftness of movement that makes it appear as if by magic, summoned like a curse. She hands it to me and I shiver at the sight of the collapsing masonry, the blazing fire, and the two figures, one a man the other a woman, falling to their deaths. I can sense instantly that this is a card I never wish to see again and hand it back as swiftly as I can.  


“May I be excused?” I ask thickly, sinking into a curtsey in anticipation of my dismissal.  


“You may...but Lady Anne,” she calls after me, “be careful, your cards are good, but this is not a precise art. It is like glimpsing something in a fog, we can only be sure of what we have seen when we are almost upon it.” I pause to see if she will add anything more, but she has already turned to a servant and called for more sweet ale.  


***  


The cards haunt my mind for some time, keeping me guessing as to their true meaning – if there even was one. One night when I accidentally stumbled on a late meeting between my lord father and the Duke of Clarence I thought for a moment that I had glimpsed the lovers, so close were their bowed heads and so passionate the light of conspiracy in their eyes. I came to see them as love blinded fools, although their lust was for the power the other could provide them, oblivious like cow eyed youths to the realities of the world.  


I met Death aboard a ship to Calais, as Isabel’s tiny blood stained bundle was thrown overboard, never having drawn breath. The queen had been right; an old way of life had ended. The life I knew and loved was over but I couldn’t envisage the bright new beginning she had promised, instead I began to feel that my life was not really my own, rather I seemed to be blown by the winds of other’s fates, carried like a leaf on another’s river.  


Sometimes the only thing that kept me going was the belief that if those two cards had come true then so must the third; my steadfast knight would come for me, I must merely be patient.  


Even as I awaited Edward of Lancaster in our marriage bed I prayed that God or fate would send me another, my knight in shining armour. I was forced to wait longer than I had hoped, months longer, but at Tewkesbury abbey come for me he did. Richard, my knight, saved me as I had long dreamed he would.  


The first night he lay in my arms, asleep and satiated, I allowed myself to draw pentacles with the tip of my finger across his lean arms, his firm chest, and curious back, and thanked my lucky stars.  


***  


It was curious that although for many months it was faith in that reading by a fire years ago that stopped me from turning into a girl of ice, once I became accustomed to being Richard’s wife it slipped from my mind like moat water through my fingers.  


Had you asked me if I believed in such magic I would have assured you that I found it all to be nonsense. But the truth was that, by accident or design, I had seen those cards come to life. Perhaps the same would have happened whatever cards I drew, but it was with anxiety, years later, that I learned George, my now brother-in-law twice over, was consulting such arts in his attempts to ward off the evil powers of the queen.  


I wondered that he thought he could hire anyone who could match her magic, for it flowed as freely as blood in her veins, inherited from a river spirit hundreds of years ago.  


I had been visiting Isabel, who had just been brought to bed with another child and was taking longer than expected to recover, when I bumped into George one cold December afternoon. The winter sun was as pale as silver and made his face appear the grey of a gravestone I noticed when he corned me on my way out of the house. I was eager to be home, away from this place of fear and paranoia, back in the warm reassuring arms of the husband I loved and with any luck on our way north to see our greatest treasure, our little Ned.  


“Anne,” he almost gasps, clutching my arm as I attempt to slide by. I can’t help but notice the sheen of sweat on his cheeks and the wild, darting motion of his eyes, as much as I would have liked to ignore it.  


“George,” I say, greeting him with as level a voice as I can manage.  


“I have something for you to see,” he hisses, and begins to tug at my hand like an insistent child, pulling me back into their dark and lifeless house.  


“I really must be going, I am expected,” I lie, pulling my thick winter cloak around me, but he will not be dissuaded.  


“It will not take long.” He insists. I look out the open door towards the frosted gardens and freedom, but I am not brave enough to leave him, to just walk out the door, so instead I follow him with a sigh. He leads me through frozen, unlit corridors until we reach a room at the very bottom of the house which he opens with a key as large as the span of my hand. The roaring fire is unexpected and the sealed room is stifling and smoky. As my eyes adjust I see that there is a large trestle table, big enough to be used in the great hall at Westminster, on which are spread various instruments that the church has banned. Telescopes and horoscopes, herbs in jars to dry or to stew, a mirror I guess is for scrying, and bent over them a pair of wizened creatures that make me shrink back in the doorway. They are not the gargoyles they first appear, rather their features are twisted and warped by the smoke; one is an old man, the other an ancient woman.  


“No introductions, it’s best you never know their names,” George mutters feverishly and I am not even sure if he is speaking to me. “These are some of the people I have hired to protect us from my brother’s bitch.” He gesticulates towards the bowing couple. Looking at the pair I cannot help but think it is a hopeless task; if the queen has magic then it comes to her as naturally as breathing - how could these two hope to compete. “Would you like to see their work?” It is not said as a question and George steers me forwards, placing maps of planets in front of my eyes that I could never understand in a thousand years. What does catch my eye however is the set of cards, not half as fine as those used by the queen, sitting in the centre of the table. One of George’s sorcerers follows my gaze and asks,  


“Is my lady familiar with the cards?” I hesitate to reply before nodding slowly and saying,  


“Yes, I have seen them used before... a long time ago.” The haggard figure, the woman I now realise, reaches for the cards and begins to shuffle the deck using fingers whose joints are swollen almost beyond recognition.  


“Would you like me to consult them for you now?” She rasps. I step back; already shaking my head but George is quicker and answers for me.  


“Yes, yes do. We must be as prepared as possible.” I am scared by his smile which looks positively unhinged but I am swept along as the hag asks me to choose my question.  


It rises unbidden to the surface of my mind like a bobbing apple, _what will become of us? What will become of us all?_  


And then she is offering me the cards to choose from. I panic and snatch three from the centre of the pack which she then takes from me and sets aside. Her malformed hand turns the first and I do not miss her wrinkled grimace. It is the Three of Swords, which means nothing to me.  


“This is a hard card to receive,” she murmurs, stroking its face slowly.  


“What does it mean?” Prompts George excitedly, eager to see the confirmation of his fears in the cards.  


“That you must walk through much suffering, much heartache. Three is the number of fruition and fulfilment, and swords are the symbol of conflict; the harvest of conflict is pain... there is much anguish in your path but if you can walk through it you may emerge stronger and wiser.” I shudder at this prophecy, discreetly crossing myself, but the old woman does not look up.  


She turns the next card and this time she actually hisses in horror, sucking air quickly through those few teeth left to her.  


“I don’t wish to hear, I don’t want to know,” I say, stumbling back now, my hands fumbling for the door. My gown feels too tight and the draw strings of my cloak are suddenly choking me.  


“Stop. These are your cards, this is your reading – you brought them into this world and so you must see them through to the end.”  


“I don’t want what they hold for me-”  


“Too late, you chose them.” She says with an even voice, as though we are discussing nothing more than the purchase of ribbons, “There are twenty two cards, that’s many thousands of possible combinations, but you chose these three.” Her hands are resting on the cards, her left on my set, her right on the remaining deck. “These,” she says indicating those beneath her right hand, “Are the thousands of lives you may have known, but this is the life you have chosen and you cannot change it now. Better to be forewarned and forearmed.” Her dark eyes meet mine steadily, daring me to try and leave a second time.  


But I am frozen in the door way like a rabbit that has spotted death sweeping in on silent wings, unable to move even my eyes as the witch turns back to her divining tools.  


“Nine of Swords is the card of mental anguish and suffering, the nightmare card, it usually precedes the end of a love affair or a bereavement...this card appears at the moment of our greatest sorrow.” I do not understand how she can pronounce these words so calmly, as though she were not passing sentence on all those I love. “When paired with the three of swords we see the combination of our darkest mental hour with the moment of our greatest pain and suffering.” She moves to turn the next card and I am possessed with the sudden urge to race across the room and stop her, to slap her gnarled hand away and leave the card down forever, so that I may never know what new horrors it holds. But I do not, and as she turns it I think I hear her give a soft sigh, a gentle, “ah,” as though all had been made clear.  


From where I am standing I cannot see which card it is and against all my instincts I creep forward to see what has caused a small, perhaps sad, smile to spread across her lined face. George is staring down in confusion, trying in vain to comprehend what she has seen. It is not until I join them at the table that I understand, and a bitter laugh almost escapes me.  


On the faded card is painted a great wheel with two beasts balanced on either side of it; one is climbing whilst the other tumbles down, on top sits a crowned figure whilst at the bottom of the wheel a creature is being crushed.  


“What is it?” George demands; looking between me and his hired witch.  


“The Wheel of Fortune,” I murmur, but I don’t hear my voice, rather another channels itself through my mouth, uttering the words I heard so many years ago. “It means that you climb very high or fall very low through no fault of your own. It’s a reminder that nothing lasts, Margaret of Anjou told me that once.”  


“But what does it mean _for us?!_ ” George demands, growing angry as he realises that he is the only one who does not understand its significance.  


“It means that fortune may throw her high or it may drag her low, we cannot know which. See this creature being crushed beneath the wheel?” The witch explains irritably.  


“What can we do to stop it then?”  


“Nothing, only god can turn the wheel. She will rise whether she wishes it and she will fall however much she wills against it.”  


“So you’re saying there is nothing we can do?! Then what is the point in knowing?” Shouts George  


“There is but one thing to do,” rasps a voice from the far, shadowy corner of the room. The other sorcerer had spoken for the first time, “Learn indifference. Learn to see success as the equal of failure, care as little for your achievements as you would the movements of the most insignificant grub.”  


“That is impossible!” George erupts and with a violent sweep spills the cards to the floor where they mingle among the rushes.  


“No, it is hard, but it is not impossible.” Says the alchemist; I ignore George’s growing ire and turn to the old woman as she bends to collect her scattered deck.  


“What does this mean for me?” I whisper as I kneel to help her, “What does it mean as a set?”  


“It means that if you rise you shall eventually fall, but if you fall then you will ultimately rise, and that unless you can learn to accept the wheel’s turn with indifference then you are going to suffer greatly.”  


“Earlier you spoke of the end of love, of bereavement... is that certain?” I ask urgently, picking up the final card and straightening as I hand it back to her. She pauses for a while, thinking her answer through carefully before answering.  


“No, it is not a certainty – there is little that is definite about these cards.”  


“But it is a possibility?” I persist. She pauses in her examination of the deck, checking for any damage, and looks me calmly in the eye.  


“In life, they are always a possibility.”  


***  


I tried not to dwell too long on the cards, a simple hedge-witch’s magic was nothing compared to the watery sorceress ruling at Westminster, and even her prophecy had not unfolded quite as she imagined.  


But when Isabel died a short while later, in the midst of my terrible grief, my most fervent prayer was that Izzy was the only bereavement I must suffer, the only loss I must endure. I hoped that her blood was enough to satisfy the swords of conflict and that this was the wheel bringing me low so that I may one day rise again.  


It seemed my prayers were answered for fortune’s wheel kept turning until I was seated at the top, at the pinnacle and the precipice. But as much joy as wearing the crown brought me, I was always ready for the moment when we would begin to topple, Richard and I.  


I confided this to him one night as I lay in his arms, tired and replete from our love making, my head pillowed on his shoulder. He laughed at my whispered fears and gathered me tighter in his embrace,  


“George was not in his right mind in those final days,” Richard murmurs, “in truth I do not believe he was well for a long time. He surrounded himself with people who fuelled his...paranoia. They were all charlatans who put coins in their pockets by feeding fears such as yours; you need not believe anything they said.” I nod my agreement but I cannot put it from my mind, I burrow closer into the join of his neck and shoulder, breathing in his unique smell and silently pray for our protection and deliverance. As long as I have him, and our precious boy, then I think I could bear anything, but I hope it will never come to that.  


***  


Whenever I pictured the wheel I saw us together, Richard and me, bound by some immutable law. I could never have imagined I would fall alone.  


I knew his reasons for implicating the Grey girl, the former princess Elizabeth, in his political schemes, but still it felt like a knife to my heart when I saw them walking together, dancing after supper, or appearing suddenly after long unexplained absences. I keep silent and hold my tongue, watching this most forbidden of seductions unfolding beneath my very nose. Sometimes I become so angry that it feels as though a fire has been stoked in my stomach, the flames of which flicker in my throat and the only way I can quench them is to pull Richard into my bed at night and make love to him with such ferocity that it shocks even him.  


I wish my fire was enough to evaporate the watery Woodville girl, but she is the daughter of her mother’s house – the descendant of a water goddess, and I fear that I shall be swept away by her rising tide of fortune.  


I smoulder in private until one night the kindling finally catches and explodes in an inferno of unspoken grievances and fears.  


I am seated in Richard’s apartments, writing a letter to our boy, whilst simultaneously listening to my husband voicing his plans and fears for the kingdom.  


“I don’t know what else I can do to draw the York affinity,” my dark husband mutters, leaning against the carved fireplace, “I shower favour on their prize flower – she is utterly discredited in Tudor’s eyes, and yet still they do not side with me, at least not fully.” My fingers clench involuntarily around the quill and I blotch the parchment before I can control myself. I breathe deeply before responding, my eyes still down on the letter before me;  


“Take care that you do not show one faction too much favour, the Neville affinity follow you for love of me and if they think you dishonour me then you will lose their trust.” I say this slowly, to disguise the warning that is personal rather than political, “Your actions impinge on both our honours-” I begin to continue, but Richard suddenly slams his goblet down and stalks to the window, staring out into the impenetrable night. I am a little stunned by this outburst for my husband has spent many years mastering his emotions, but right now I can feel his anger and frustration pulsing through the room, as palpable as the crackling air that precedes a storm.  


I approach him slowly, hands raised in supplication until they come to rest on his curved spine. I brush my fingers slowly across the rich velvet of his doublet and take a moment to collect my thoughts, all the while feeling the tensing and flexing of his muscles beneath my touch.  


“Do you remember, my love...you once said that all you needed was me and your own honour?” I murmur this wistfully, pressing my cheek to his back, and thus am totally unprepared for his savage reply. He whips around and with a biting voice, more bitter than any I have ever heard before, he says,  


“And what if that is no longer enough? Hm? Do you think they will unite the lords or secure the crown?” His eyes flash dangerously and for the first time in over a decade of marriage, I am afraid of him. “Can your love buy me men, or ships, or the loyalty of these treasonous bastards?! It’s not enough Anne; I cannot hold a kingdom with love or honour!” I have hastily taken half a dozen steps back, retreating before the rage of this stranger – he is totally unrecognisable from the man I love, from my husband and the father of my child.  


For what seems an eternity I can only stare in horror, my mind completely disconnected from my body. Had someone stumbled upon us they would have seen two monarchs frozen like statues, the only movement is the rapid rise and falls of our chests - both breathing like divers returning to the surface.  


Then we thaw, as though an enchantment has been lifted, and I see Richard slowly seep back into the body of the man standing before me. His wintery eyes bulge and his mouth works silently, unable to take back the terrible words spoken in anger and frustration.  


I see him reach for me but I am already whirling around, my skirts billowing as I dash for the door. I ignore his imploring words as he begs me to stay and am deaf to his words of regret as I careen into the corridor, walking as fast as I can back to my rooms, only checking the urge to run as I imagine the gossip that would follow if the queen was seen fleeing her husband’s bedchamber.  


I can barely see where I am going so thick is my haze of tears, and I clamp my mouth tightly shut for fear that if I open it I will scream. I explode into my presence chamber and my ladies-in-waiting scatter like exotically coloured birds, identities obscured by my blinding tears – all except for the auburn head that belatedly remembers to curtsey.  


Edward’s eldest bastard is unused to showing deference to anyone and it is only as the other women bend the knee that she remembers that she too must now sink before me. I might have passed her by and flung myself into the solitude of my bedchamber had I not seen the pack of cards in her dainty white hands; even through my tears I know them well.  


“What are these?” I demand, rounding on her. She is so surprised by my attack that she does not immediately reply and my rage races to fill the silence, “they are divination cards, witchcraft! And I will not have them in my court!” I mean to snatch them from her grasp but she instinctively holds on so that I only capture a few and from this scuffle one escapes both our clutches, skittering softly to the rush covered floor. We both look at it for a long moment but she does not dare to reach for the lone card, seemingly shocked at her own defiance. I regard the gilded back fearfully but I cannot help myself as I pick it up with tremulous fingers. I turn it cautiously, feeling sick to my stomach and yet unable to resist looking. As I register its image I hear a small moan and it takes a moment for me to realise that it was I who made the noise, in my horror I nearly drop it again, so wholly am I undone.  


_The Tower_. Although she lives it seems as though Elizabeth Woodville’s ghost haunts the beautiful room that once was hers for her voice from so many years ago rings in my ears, _the lightning struck tower, it means complete and utter destruction._  


My head and stomach are spinning and I fear that I shall wretch on the carpet so deep is my horror. Elizabeth seems shocked into inertion as well for she offers no resistance as I again take the bright cards from her, only offering protest when she see what I intend to do.  


“Please you Grace, they are my mother’s!” she pleads as I stand before the fire,  


“They are witchcraft and shall not be tolerated!” I hiss, with the ferocity of a cornered animal; then I cast them into the flames but feel no satisfaction as I watch them begin to blacken and curl. I see real smoke rise from the image of the burning tower and know that the figure of the falling woman is me; that I have just foreseen my own total and utter ruin.  


I feel nothing as Elizabeth begins to cry, what is the loss of this set of cards compared to my impending grief?  


The husband I love is slipping from me and this younger and more beautiful woman seems poised to take my crown. I am the lady falling from the tower, I am the beast slipping on the wheel of fortune, and below my feet is nothingness – empty space where there once was solid ground.  


I do not hear my ladies leaving, but am aware of the reproachful silence which fills the room in their absence. I try to calm my feverish thoughts, to slow the parade of fears that marches through my mind, but to no avail.  


_Oh dear God_ , I pray as I sink to my knees by the hearth, _whatever happens, whatever fate you have in store for me...spare me Ned, please God leave me my Edward..._  


But as so often happened, my prayers fell on deaf or uncaring ears.

**Author's Note:**

> As always feedback and criticism appreciated.
> 
> On a complete side note; whilst I was in France I visited Angers, the home town of Margaret of Anjou, including it's magnificent castle where she grew up and the cathedral in which Anne Neville and Edward of Lancaster were betrothed... 10/10 would recommend - so much history, although my sister did not find it half as interesting. (It was also bizarre as I wrote something a while back set in the Royal Lodge at Angers, with Anne Neville overlooking the river, so being able to stand on the battlements and see the lodge and its windows that look out onto the river... wow)
> 
> Also, finished The Sunne in Splendour, 11/10 would recommend - seriously!


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